32 minutes ago
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream
For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! life is earnest!
And the grave is not it's goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow,
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, thou stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums are beating, funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle, in the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle,
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future however pleasant!
Let the dead past bury it's dead!
Act,- Act in the living present!
Heart within, and God overhead.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;
Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing over life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, seeing shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing
With a heart of any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.